


I Want a Bible That Will Remember Me

by CircleUp



Category: Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Spider-Man/Deadpool - Joe Kelly (Comics)
Genre: M/M, Rating May Change, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2020-11-01 10:10:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20813402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CircleUp/pseuds/CircleUp
Summary: In a world where everyone has wings and the color of your wings determines what caste you are, Peter and Wade have different ranks than anyone would expect.





	I Want a Bible That Will Remember Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Burntfalls](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Burntfalls/gifts).

It kind of figures that, of all people, Deadpool has stunning wings.

He isn't Ivory, but he isn't quite a full step down from it either, someone who insists on perpetually defying all expectations and labels. When Peter first met him as Spider-man—an interaction that ended with him kicking the anti-hero off a bridge—he nearly forgot himself because the mercenary's wings just commanded that kind of attention, a fifteen-foot span with the backs a perfect white (and how on Earth did he keep them that way? Most Ivories were white-collared workers for a reason) while the insides were white-tipped with browns and golds. Visually incredible and totally fucking unfair. There was scarring on them but it didn't affect how the feathers came in, perfectly straight, and always perfectly preened. A White-Jewel, they were called, when Ivories mixed with other colors, and given the rarity of pure Ivories, they were equally as treasured. If Deadpool hadn't been, well, Deadpool, there would be no social door unopened to him.

It's unfair.

"You ever unbind those?" Deadpool wonders. Peter had heard him touch down, landing lightly on the building's edge then walking over. He knows the sound is purposeful; the mercenary can make his footfalls silent if he wants to, which is also unfair. Unnatural. Add it to the list of unnatural things about Deadpool that Peter spends too much time thinking about without any resolution.

Peter shakes his head. His wings are always bound tight, covered and hidden, which isn't completely unheard of for supers who want to keep their identities a secret. Wings are a recognizable trait. Daredevil keeps his bound when he's out in the mask, and was an inspiration for Peter to do the same after he was bitten.

"It's not healthy," Deadpool says, conversational. He steps up beside Peter, his wings now furled neatly against his back. Peter has to marvel at their color, again, especially given that he actually uses them. No one uses their wings, at least not regularly, for the same reason that no one walks anywhere if they can afford to do otherwise. It's exhausting, and for the upper castes, it's a great way to dirty them. When everyone has wings, flying becomes pedestrian, something for poor people. They're for displays only, something social. Decorative even. There are of course weirdos who fly in to work and insist it's healthy, but health nuts are by no means the norm.

"What?"

"Binding them all the time," Deadpool explains, and Peter sighs.

He glances over, resigning himself to an evening wasted on this conversation. He's been looking down, half crouched, at the city below, maybe looking for trouble, maybe just hoping Deadpool will get a clue if Peter doesn't face him. "I don't bind them all the time."

"I don't believe you," Deadpool says, which is true but there's no way for him to know that. Some Greys do bind frequently, especially if their wings are particularly dull or stunted. Grey wings don't always fill in all the way, and even when they do their wingspans are stunted and flightless. Then there are those from higher castes who wing-bind after disfiguring accidents. Wing appearance means everything, and if it's covered at least you're left guessing rather than knowing. Better bound than ugly.

Peter straightens to glare at him. "I take care of myself," he says and even as he says it, he knows he's lost, because no one who's this defensive has no skin in the game.

Deadpool knows this and smirks behind his mask. "I wouldn't judge, you know."

"I'm not talking about this," Peter snaps, unaware that he's shifted in a way that puts his wings behind him, his body between the mercenary and them, unconsciously protecting them.

"You change your mind, Webs, you let me know," Deadpool tells him. "I got the best preening oil."

Peter can't think of anything worse, honestly, than letting Deadpool touch his feathers. He shrugs, back to staring down at the streets, though he's really staring more through them now, wordless.

"'Kay? 'Kay," Deadpool says, and he neatly dives forward. It's beautiful, the way he lets himself fall, arms outstretched, then unfurls his wings and catches the wind. Peter watches him swoop up and up and up, over the top of the adjacent building, and disappear into the city.

He doesn't get any patrolling done that night. He thinks too much about Deadpool, and pity-eats an entire family-sized pre-popped cheddar popcorn bag, and passes out in his bed.

It's unfair.


End file.
